


Come Dance With Me

by softcactus



Category: Voltron - Fandom
Genre: Boys Kissing, Café, Customer Lance, Lance chases after this waiter he swoons over, M/M, New Years Eve, Oneshot, Pidge you’re not helping, Romantic Fluff, Slow Romance, Waiter Keith (Voltron), Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, i don’t know how to do tags oops, its my first fic, just fluff here, just trust me it’s good, klance, soft klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 17:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17248328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcactus/pseuds/softcactus
Summary: Keith applies to a small café right smack in the middle of town to earn some money. He creates a friendship over short time with two of his coworkers, Pidge and Hunk. A certain pair of customers catches his eye one night. A shirt is ruined. Frank Sinatra. A smoking habit. New Year’s Eve.





	Come Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this BEFORE S8 and i finished it recently to cope with voltron being over. I created it on a late night with some wild ideas to be written down, and somehow... this was the outcome. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this sweet and simple oneshot  
> one step at a time.
> 
> p.s. I apologize for grammatical/silly errors, if any! I do happen to still be human with mistakes like that.

“Do you know how to make a simple latte?”

“Yeah.”

“Flat white?”

“Yep.”

“Espresso?”

“Doesn’t everyone…?”

“Cappuccino? Mocha? Macchiato?”

“Really? Is this a survey or something?” Keith’s arms found themselves across his chest, his brows knitted. He was applying for a job, not some teen magazine questionnaire. 

“It’s part of my job, pal. But, I’ll save you the hassle and cut to the chase; have you had any previous experience in waiting tables?” 

His head bobbed robotically. “I just need the money.”

“...Understandable; you can start tomorrow since you’re so  _ experienced _ .” Flatly said; the manager finished drying a white mug, setting it on the rack with the rest. She had to have been a handful of inches shorter than the other, a tight but willing face that gave you the illusion that she wasn’t even listening. “I’m Deej, by the way.”

“Keith.” His name was his only response before taking his leave.

“Oh yeah, you can’t do that in here.” Deej referred to the ‘no smoking’ warning plaque above the entrance door Keith was halted at. With an understanding nod, he was gone. The mulleted man did just as the boss told him. For three and a half weeks now, trudging along with a hairpin curve on his lips with incoming paychecks here and there for simple pocket money. Between breaks, a cigarette was lit behind the building. 

 

——

 

Monday was today’s date; of course. A Monday _. _ Not to mention the weather that just set the cherry on top. The wind bites at exposed skin, the white fluff outside piling up patiently by the passing minute to contradict the idea of frostbite.

Keith had relatively picked up on the common ‘do’ and ‘don'ts; He only messed up a few orders at the start. The rookie stuff; forgetting to set out placemats, not refilling the sugar dispensers or sweeping the welcome mat- the careless things. Customers were easy to serve, a simple advantage to getting work done properly and learning to eliminate baby faults.

The evening dusk came rolling around, Nautical. Another one of Keith’s extended shifts; another day of basking in the mixed scents of grinded beans, clinking plates going back and forth through swinging doors, random murmurs floating between strangers.  _ …The snow seems to have picked up a lot today… My schedule has been so tight lately… It’s right around the corner!… What do you want to order?... … Just yesterday I could have sworn it was thanksgiving…  _

 

The service seemed to have picked up, more customers swarming in to make a quick pit stop coming home from work. Then there were others that came in to actually order something and make use of their stay; a simple coffee or hot chocolate to warm up.

There were couples that came in together all the time; lunch break, dinner, surprise proposals, coffee dates- you name it. There was a particular pair that caught Keith’s eye, never saw them around before. Because he’s new, maybe.

 

No, they drew more attention than the other introverted couples. 

 

“Okay, okay— my turn,” was a giggle in the middle of the wave of voices that Keith managed to scoop out. It was a more masculine one, one that made the waiter avert his attention to check it out.

The man that the masculine teeter belonged to was sitting in the booth where the mulleted one couldn’t see a face, only a back of a head with some strictly styled brunette locks.

The man picked up his unused straw, bit the edge of the wrapper off and blew extravagantly; the wrapper shot across the table to land directly on the man’s company’s nose. 

There was another snicker that followed, a woman’s. Keith chose not to yank the attention onto her, and instead resumed his concentration on the latte art; It was a Christmas tree, and he was finishing the star. He’d been taught how to do so by his mother, each latte being another jab at his memory.

The waiter retrieved a small plate to set under the latte he completed safely, traveling to the booth of strangers that requested so. An older lady, maybe in her seventies, shone a smile with a thank you. 

“Woohoo! I even got the very tip! Bonus points!” Another triumphant cheer came from the forbidden booth that Keith was bound to tend to to receive their order. He would have preferred to have his newly befriended coworker Pidge cover it, but he knew that would only take more time to ask her. Better to get it over with.

“You dropped this.” Keith said, bending to pick up the remains of the straw wrapping ammo. A little notepad was whipped out, a pen, and he was ready to take the order. “What can I get you two?”

The laughs came to a stop shortly after the waiter had arrived, alternatively becoming silent. The man speaks up first. Now, the server could properly take notice to more of his facial features. His skin was unblemished, a warm mocha shade; eyes were as indigo as a perfect dye. He couldn’t tell if he was staring at them this whole time or if it was just his imagination.

“Oh, I’m sorry; we’ll both have my usual, please.” A quick glance was shared between Keith and the gorgeous stranger. A glance that felt like a lifetime, but only lasted a hair of a second.

“…And that would be…?” The waiter spoke once more, now switching his focus between both the customers at the booth. The man didn’t seem to particularly like the response.

“Ah, you must be new.” A dry accusation: Keith should have known his order regardless. 

“I’m not new.” 

“Oh, yeah? I come here _ every _ Monday night, and I’ve never seen your face around here before. You would know my usual.” A toying smirk was attempted, no reaction to score from the waiter; he was trying to get under his skin on purpose. 

A much shorter waitress came moseying around behind Keith, thee claimed to be the infamous Pidge, balancing a brown, flat saucer in her right palm. “Yeah, _every_ Monday night with a new person _every_ time…” The woman in the booth wasn’t amused with the random commentary, but the waitress sure was with her playful exit.

Maintaining proper etiquette, the mulleted server cleared his throat in an unsaid apology for his coworker. “ _ Any who _ … what would your ‘usual’ be, then?”

“Actually, I’d like to try your new pumpkin spice latte special, please.” The woman spoke up out of nowhere, a snap back to the now, Keith forgetting she was still present and in the same vicinity.

“Pumpkin spice?” The man questioned, it was the first he was hearing of this. “I thought you didn’t like pumpkin?” 

The waiter’s foot tapped, chest rising and falling in impatience. He was now regretting not considering having Pidge take this one on. 

“I can bring a sample for you both, if you’d li—“

“No, that’s fine. We’ll have the two pumpkin lattes, thank you.” The tension from the man’s tone disappeared, it wasn’t there in the first place.

 

Keith scribbled the initials down with a nod, taking his leave and trailing back to the kitchen, a distressed huff after the escape. 

“Hey, Hunk, two pumpkin lattes.” He called out to the second worker that he’s grown close to behind the counter. “I’ve gotta take a table,” And Keith did. There were mushy couples and the not-couples still filing in.

A few minutes bleed together in a beat-the-clock rush, the mulleted waiter zipping back and forth between different rooms and booths, careful not to tilt his two filled trays of both cooked food and coffee; ‘ _ please wait for someone to return to take your order’, ‘right away, ma’am’, ‘enjoy your meals’. _

Keith was in the middle of another one of his rushes in an aisle of tables, one last espresso to deliver to a booth across the room by the window near the entrance. He didn’t recall a flail arm being a part of the routine, but it certainly became one. He came to a stop, his feet shuffled back to avoid the clash of a broiling hot mug and a familiar looking mocha-stained hand. It didn’t work all that well, because they collided with a small  _ clunk _ and a frantic brunette man shooting up in his seat to avoid being covered in any more of the scolding liquid.

“What the hell, man?!” A shout overpowered the sea of murmurs. It had to have been the pumpkin pie protestor from earlier. Keith figures it is a natural reaction from the man, but he saw the look on his face and he was wrong. The bark came from the woman across the booth, disgust pouring out of every facial feature to book.

It all happened too quick for the waiter to keep up with, pretty easy to see. He set down the runny, sticky cup of joe, his face showing every emotion it could.

“I-I am so sorry, your hand flew out and-and I was trying not to run into it and I guess the coffee just—uh,” Keith’s apology was mouthwash gargling in his mouth, all different directions without the right explanation. 

“You ruined his shirt! Do you realize how much money I paid for that? Now it’s all stained with… Espresso? Disgusting! That’s never coming out! Who do you think you—“

“Nyma, it’s fine.” A hum, a small bell to ring Keith back to the present from his warp of this-is-all-your-fault black hole he had been sucked into; a savior of the day.

“I… I can clean it for you.” A squeak slithered from the walls of the waiter’s strangled throat. “I’ve got a plain shirt in the back, you want it? You shouldn’t walk out of here looking like… that.”

The offer caused a stimulus of the brunette’s head to turn to Keith, soft and collected; polar opposite of his date’s expression. “Sure,” he opened his mouth to say something more, but then.

“Ooookay, two pumpkin spice latte spec…ials…” Keith’s fellow coworker approached with the two beverages he had announced, one in each hand. Fortunate for Hunk, he didn’t have to balance anything like Keith had. He was far too experienced for that to be an issue anyway; he once spun plates on a few utensils during break. It was pretty impressive, actually.

“What happened here?”

“An accident.” The drenched brunette said, a hand waved to show no worry to be necessary. Keith could have sworn he saw the pumpkin protestee give the ‘Nyma’ woman a glare of warning, but shook that away and knew it was just him. It had to have been.

“Hunk, can you clean this up while I take him to the back?” A question with an immediate nodded answer. The two pumpkin spices were set carefully on the table in front of the woman and where the mocha man would have been sitting until he started following Keith back to where the restrooms were.

 

A hand was held before the brunette’s chest to signal he wasn’t allowed to enter inside the ‘employees only’ labeled door. With two shakes, the waiter was in and out with a plain dark blue tee. 

“Try it on and see if it fits. If not, you’ll have to deal. It’s all I got.” 

“Thanks.” With that, the sun kissed man waltzed to the restroom, leaving the waiter in the vacant hallway. 

This hadn’t happened before, not once in Keith’s entire record of serving as a waiter in the many places he worked at. It shouldn’t have taken this much of a tool on him, since 1. it was only once and 2. He is pretty new. 

 

But, he remembered the look on the so called  _ ‘ _ Nyma’s face, and squeezed his forehead with pads of his fingers. He hadn’t had a break all day long, figured he could chug through without. It’s overdue; now was a perfect time.

 

The waiter entered into the ‘employees only’ door from before once more, shutting it after. He crouched until he sat on a somewhat steady box, letting his head loll back to bump against the wall in a stop.

He just got this job, and he just started getting comfortable with the few amount of people he managed to feel himself around. He didn’t want to lose it now, not because of some slip up like this. 

Unfortunately, Keith couldn’t leave and go home and sleep on this like any sane person would. He still had a few hours to punch in. A few more hours of hopefully not spilling any more drinks, of refilling the same sets of mugs with the same types of coffee, of listening to that radio that somehow is on at all times.

Now is one of those times. The waiter could hear the muffled sound of the song that was heard just enough to be distinguishable: _ Come Dance With Me, Frank Sinatra. _

How convenient it was of a situation. Comical, if that. The lyrics were comprehensive, and at first, Keith hummed along to them; the song was a well known one and was almost always on this radio station at least five times a week.

 

_...Hey there cutes, put on your dancin' boots, and come dance with me… _

 

The humming transitioned to quiet slurs of the rhythm that explored to his feet, tapping the tempo out.

 

… _ Come dance with me, what an evening for some Terpsichore _ … 

 

The slurs slipped to whispers of lyrics poured out in perfect harmony.

 

_ …Pretty face, I know a swingin' place, come on dance with me… _

_ …Romance with me on a crowded floor… _

 

The whispers grow to a full volume voice.

 

_ …And while the rhythm swings, what lovely things I'll be sayin’… _

_ …‘Cause what is dancing… _ _  
_ _ …Making love set to music, playin’… _

 

The voice of the now calmed waiter is singing, dancing over the jazzy notes, easy as breathing.

 

_ …When the band begins to leave the stand and folks start to roam… _

_...As we walk home, cheek to cheek we'll be… _

_ …Come on, come on, come on, come on and dance with me… _

 

The song fades to another, one that isn’t familiar to Keith as the one prior. The man took a second to realize his position, standing in post-dance. He would rather not address what just happened, walk out of the room a new man.

The mullet assumed the stranger he directed earlier had by now returned to the table, returned to his girlfriend. No one was in the restroom, no one knocked on the employee door for assistance; the shirt must have fit. 

 

Most of the crowd that had filled the booths had left, now there was only the regulars that stayed behind to finish their meals and or newspapers. The old lady was only on the third page.

The waiter almost had a hint of hope that the stranger that had the perfectly styled, silky brunette hair was still back at that booth. He also had a sprinkle of hope that he wasn’t, just so he didn’t have to look into those dumb eyes again. 

Those big, goofy looking, indigo eyes. They were beautiful. Just to look at. Only to look. From afar. Very, very far away.

 

Both the woman and man had deserted their booth.

 

\---

 

Saturday, inexistant business. The city is extinct from the looks of it. Not really, there’s just a small group of regulars that make the door ring the little bell. Only about five or six individuals. 

Keith considered taking the day off, the pay for the day being redundant of something to look forward to. Instead, he stayed in the back and chatted casually with his new acquaintances.

“We’re supposed to get nine inches tonight, did you hear about that? And that’s just a guesstimate!” A riled up Hunk points out, standing at the sink rinsing off plates and drying them in an assembly line.

“Yeah, wouldn’t shock me if we get snowed in. Might have to spend the night here— oh, oh, wouldn’t that be crazy?” Pidge comments, end of the assembly line stacking the plates properly away. “What do you think, Keith? Bunk up in the resource room? Tell scary stories? Oh, oh—  _ conspiracy  _ stories!”

“Though I’m not complaining about the conspiracy story thing, I don’t think it will get that bad.” If Keith’s arms weren’t already crossed before, they were now. He leaned back on the island, sipping at his own cup of hot chocolate, two lone marshmallows swirling in patterns to chase after one another.

“Aw. You’re no fun,” the smallest nudged the mullet, shifting to tap the cabinet door shut. The last batch of dishes were complete. “While we’re up there, we can find you another shirt. Since, y’know, you  _ gave yours away _ .” 

The waiter didn’t bother to acknowledge the eyebrow wiggle that was heard loud and clear in her voice. “I ruined his shirt, it was the least I could do for him?” Defensive, his shoulders rising stiffly and falling. 

“Dude, no one just offers to swap a stranger’s shirt with one of theirs because of a little spill.” Hunk chimes into Pidge’s play. “It was nice, yeah, but still. It was pretty…”

“ _ Romantic _ ~” A sing-songy tone shadowed her single word. A glare was shared between the glasses and mullet. “Why don’t you spill a drink on his phone and ask him for his number too, while you’re at it?” 

“Gross— Hunk.” Keith called for help, a surrender, but with enough bite to mask it. 

“Alright, Pidge. I’m sure Keith can handle his love life just fine on his own.” His head turned, angled to look at both without needing to shift; a mother telling their children to quit their bickering.

A scoff and a flat hand wave swatted the air from the glasses. “Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.” 

She opened the lid of a trash bin, scooping the edges together and hoisting it over her shoulder Santa Clause style. The entrance door bell rang through the air; another customer.

“Hey, Keith, can you get that? I’ll be back in a tic.” Pidge took the back exit out, the waiter not bothering to respond in assumption that he would have to handle the customer regardless.

Keith tied his apron back around his waist, a lanky bow dropping. His notepad, a pen—he snatched both and was on his way out the swinging doors. He who was responsible for the bell ringing was the pumpkin spice objector from the other day; Brunette and all.

 

“Hey, it’s you again!”

 

The stranger sounded well too excited, they barely spoke a sentence to each other. Well, in real time, at least. A few extra conversations were played out in Keith’s mind but a few times; discussing why he hated pumpkin spice so much. How frequently he must spend practicing aiming straw wrappers at noses. Why he left so suddenly that day.

 

“Yeah I, uh… work here, so…” The only response the waiter could find. “You can sit wherever you like, we don’t have as much of a full house, otherwise I’d seat you.” 

Once the server finished explaining, he circled around to swipe up a finished cup of pitch black to refill it behind the counter. Keith couldn’t help but feel at a sense of protection when there, it was being able to be attached yet so far away from the rest of the restaurant. Personal space, a bubble.

Apparently the indigo-eyed stranger didn’t care much for that personal space. He sat himself in the middle stool of all seven, lined up all proper in front of the counter. Not a word was said, but the mullet was waiting for something to be said anyway.

“Can I help you?” An eyebrow crawled up the server’s porcelain skin; milky. The arms were returning to their crossing stance before a response was given a chance.

“Nope.” The brunette was daydreaming. “Well—no, I don’t need anything.” He looked like he had been, at least.

“...Okay.” The waiter was slowly losing whatever patience this man thought he had. 

The pumpkin protestee was getting antsy tapping fondly upon the countertop, “I have your shirt that you lent me. Thank you for that, by the way.” A little kid waiting for the right time to ask for a piece of candy. The shirt was brought up from his lap onto the counter, folded properly.

 

He really didn’t have to return it.

 

“No sweat.” A flat reply, sweeping through the contained space behind the counter and vacating for more orders. There weren’t any to take, Keith didn’t want to stay in front of him longer than he had to. He doesn’t know him, and the stranger knows nothing of him either.

Apparently the brunette wanted to. Otherwise, he would have moved from his spot and left. He stayed put. The mullet curved to behind the stranger, observant, grasping the shirt.

“You returned my shirt, and thanked me.” Reading off of a ‘to-do’ list, checked off and accomplished. Nothing left to do.

“I did.” A confirmation, a nod.

“Listen,” the waiter circled around into the countershaft once more, leaning impatiently forward on the lip of the clean wooden top. “If you’re not going to order anything, leisure isn’t allowed.” 

“Okay.” Keith went to reach for his notepad, the stranger was ordering. “I’d like… a song.” A comfortable brunette gleamed. The mullet was in a pause. 

 

A song?

 

“A what?” He misheard. He must have. 

“I would like a song.” He heard correct.

“Oh. Well… the juke’s over there, a song is seventy-five cen—“

“No,” a teeter whispered from the mocha lips, the head shaking back and forth. Something was funny, he assumed; Keith didn’t know what. The indigo eyes changed the subject like his request didn’t happen.

“Name?” The protestee read off of where a small box on the collarbone would be to reveal a name tag of some sort. It was blank.

“Huh? Oh. These shirts don’t have our names on them.” 

“Then what’s your name?” Forbidden question, a stranger doesn’t ask these things. He seemed to want to know, desperately.

 

A few seconds of silence filled the empty space. Keith sunk his weight backward, pulling away from the bar. A snicker could be heard, a quick roll to the dark violets. The waiter left once more, the juke box being the final destination. Three quarters were inserted, titled papers flipping like a merry go around.

 

“Hey, you didn’t answer my question.” A childish whine, a pacifier being ripped from the hands of a toddler.

The mullet had no response he planned to give, making up his mind without much hassle in finding a song. The worn speakers tuned in, a fuzz breaking before the song faded through.  _ Get Happy, Judy Garland. _

 

A few cups were refilled, Keith turned his back on the indigo eyes, daring to sneak a peek only once or twice. He was amused, and so was the waiter. 

“Where’s your girlfriend?” He dared to ask, curiosity took over. It was a personal question, not a question a newbie would ask someone like so.

“Nyma?” The stranger took the question, tested it on his tongue. “Oh. Yeah, we uh… we didn’t work out. Wasn’t my type- you know how it is.”

A hum from the mullet, signaling that he could have possibly known how it was. He didn’t. The waiter left for the hundredth time, returning a fresh cup of a latte to the old lady with the newspaper. She’s on page 8 now. A crash from the black ice only a few blocks away, according to the illustration.

The brunette waited until the violet eyes returned, opening his mouth to say something, closing. 

“...So—”

“It’s over.” The waiter propped his elbow up, his cheek rested. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Your song, it’s over.” A quick tilt to his head, referring the jukebox across the way and the purpose for the pumpkin objector to leave now that he had no reason to stay.

“Oh. I see.” Another nod, understood. 

The stranger stood, a smile plastered, fixing his suit. He was dressed up, a diamond in a bin of rocks. What was he doing  _ here _ ? 

A little note was slapped down, indents on the lines from the back that had something written on it. A small salute of the mocha hand, a goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t return, a wish. He didn’t know him, he’s a stranger.

 

Keith flipped the paper.  _ Lance _ .

 

——

 

“Plus four! Ha! Green, of course.” The smaller of the three with the spectacles threw down a black ‘plus four, wild’ card onto the pile that was already stacked. The other two groaned, Hunk picking up the directed amount. 

Between three mismatched blankets, three half-filled mugs of hot cocoa, a timer at their sides, and a set of uno cards; Hunk, Keith, and Pidge were all huddled in an awkward triangle on the floor in the storage room upstairs, towers of boxes surrounding them.

Only a week or so passed from Keith receiving a name on a piece of paper from a certain pumpkin spice objectant, the employees decided staying indoors for the night would be a better call than to risk the icy roads.

 

“Alright,  _ pidgeon _ ,” Hunk’s eyes narrowed, he wasn’t actually mad. Far from it. “I’ll get you my next turn.”

“I don’t think you will.” Keith slaps a green ‘plus two’ down onto the slanting pile, “uno.”

“Wha- KEITH! You betrayed me!” An offended glasses yelped, retrieving the two cards. Keith shrugged as Hunk exchanged glares at both of his opponents.

“Hunk, my guy, my favorite chief, my best friend in the whole universe- you  _ have _ to put a plus two down. A wild, reverse, skip, plus four- anything. Forgive and forget, right buddy?”

The glare towards the glasses grew intense. That plus four that she threw his way certainly was not forgiven nor forgotten. “ _ Forgive and forget... _ ” A scoff. Hunk set a green seven down, “a plus four build, Pidge. Who even are you anymore?”

In the midst of their babbling, the mullet set his last green card down, his back straightened to stretch his arms upward above his head. “How many is that now?”

“Sixteen. To four and three...” Defeat came loud and clear from Pidge. “I want a rematch.”

“Oh, so you can kick me while I’m down and throw  _ three _ plus two’s my way?” Hunk sipped his cocoa, the bite was in his tone. It was pretty difficult for the mullet to not burst into giggles right then and there.

“I had to! One more game!” The glasses demanded, adjusting her blanket around her.

“Nah, It’s getting late. I’m going to close up shop, refills?” Keith asked, already stretching out his legs to prepare for his journey downstairs. Both heads shook in a no. 

Hunk gathered the cards, Pidge lending a hand to help but only being slapped here and there. Their arguing was dragged out as long as possible, their little murmurs were still heard as Keith was going down the stairs to the front door. The air sent chills all over what exposed skin it could bite- enough to wake you up, a caffeine.

 

He stepped out and leaned his back upon the exterior of the building, fishing out a cig and a light. The tip of the white stick was lit to a timid orange, blazing patiently. A single puff of smoke disintegrated in the silent air as the rest fell up from his lips. He told his brother, Shiro, that he would try his best to quit. Eventually. 

The night was silent, a bare canvas of a sky. No stars. A disadvantage of winter. Instead, it was a foggy, uncertain mess of a cloud that held high above the pitch black city that Keith knew too well by now by passing everyday; the park, the hideouts, bars, thrift shops, the café. The only café in town that most drive ridiculous hours just to visit. Keith never knew why, there didn’t seem to be much special about it.

His hand wrestled briskly into his pocket to maintain warmth, discovering a familiar slip of paper with the one word. He held it out into the night sky, The five letters, one consonant. A name, the word was a name. A stranger’s name that he’d never see again. It could have been an accident, a careless mistake to have left behind your identity for someone to learn. A mistake to have left behind anything at all.

“—Kill you, right?” Keith’s hearing tunneled back in, his attention caught. Someone else was there. It didn’t register until the last second to process the same mocha skin, the same indigo eyes that could make flowers bloom, make the sun smile on a rainy day.

“What?” The only word that he could fish out from his vocabulary. His tongue was already busy with the stick of nicotine. And, his eyes somehow still found their way to those enchanting lazuli gems.

“I said,” the brunette stepped but two inches closer, snatching the cigarette out of the mullet’s mouth and letting it fall to a pile of snow on the sidelines. “You know those things can kill you, right?”

A shrug, a quick response for once. He’s been told this most of his life, he’s gotten used to the lectures and how to disobey them anyway. Shiro would have thrown it away, as well. He always did. “Lance.”

He hadn’t said anything like that out loud before. It’s only been in his pocket for all this time; fresh like honey. Peaches.

It was nothing more than a reflex, but it came out as everything but. A question, maybe more. The other’s face scrunched for half a second, nose and all. “That’s the name, don’t wear it out.” The mocha lips curled to a soft grin. Keith didn’t want to see that again.

 

Then he'd want to keep seeing it. 

 

“Do you want to come in for a while? It’s cold, so…” the milky skin gave an offer, already turning the knob to return where heating was provided.

Lance nodded, following Keith back into the enticing scents of coffee grinds and the comforting darkness filling the place completely. The only source of light was from the light posts outside, their glow beaming through the wide panes. 

“Closing up shop for the holidays?” The guest questioned, his gaze exchanging from table to table, acknowledging the chairs flipped onto tables and the not so overwhelming crowded vibe. No customers. 

“Yeah,” Keith shrugged, totally not inching his distance away from the other. He still didn’t know him, and he still didn’t know why he even offered to let him come in. It’s far past business hours. It’s far past normal people walking the street hours. 

“Not to sound… rude or anything, but… why did you come here? again?” A gentle push at the question he’s been meaning to ask, a question that’s really silly if you over analyze it as much as the waiter here has over the few days. 

Keith, swooped his lower half over an unflipped stool by the counter. His eyebrows furrowed, quizzical. The mocha man flickered his attention back to him, casually stepping himself closer to the jukebox that’s lights had been buzzed out.

The jukebox looked newer than it actually was. It had been there ever since the café was built, ever since the two business runners had saved enough of their own money to place it in the café. 

They were so stubborn to the fact of having the musical entertainment there, they wouldn’t open until it was set up. It was a crucial touch to the place, they believed. It was supposed to help create memories worth saving, like a picture. 

 

A musical picture.

 

“I come here all the time.” A muffled ruffling could be heard from across the floor, then a small clanking following. The sat waiter’s confusion only grew from there and beyond.

“No- I mean now. It’s late- on New Year’s Eve.” One fact after another notched down his list of reasons why Lance had no reason to be there. 

“Also, that’s not on.” The jukebox’s lights weren’t on, Keith figured it would have been obvious. Plus, turning it on would just be a hassle. He’s already turned it off for the night. “Shouldn’t you be with—“

“Nyma?” Another jingling from the man’s pocket. 

“Your family.” A matter-of-fact correction. There’s nothing wrong with trying to be sincere. And the waiter sure was. But, with a distracted person on the end of the conversation he was trying to have, it was a little…

“And- I just told you that wasn’t on.”

“And I told you things between her and I didn’t work out.” Lance was crouched down now, squirming just a pinch to properly reach the wiring and buttons to get the jukebox running once more. 

Keith will have to turn that off yet again, but he can’t seem to find it in himself to care right now. He had no words.

The lights faded to a glow, titles revealing themselves upon little cards. A million of little concerts just ready to be clicked upon and played and swayed to. 

 

“Sinatra?” His voice startled the waiter only a little, Keith not expecting that, of all things. 

“Frank Sinatra? Yeah, he’s one of my favorites to listen to.” A little upcurve to the mullet’s lips. There wasn’t a pause or hesitation found in his answer. All true. “Do you listen to him?”

A positive hum, smooth like honey. It was supposed to be taken as a yes. That’s exactly what Keith took it as, too.

More flipping, then a stop. Three quarters rolled down into the metal slit, then a  _ cha-ching _ . One chance for a song.

“Elvis?”

“Does that even count as a question?” Of course he listened to him. Who doesn’t? “Martin?”

“Ahhh… Dean’s a keeper.” Lance snorted a soft teeter. It was a surprise to have someone like him to have the same interests in music as the waiter. “I actually learned how to dance off of  _ Sway _ .”

“Oh.” Keith wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask what other artists he knew. He wanted to ask what other songs he danced to, he wanted to know how he danced.

 

He wanted to know a lot more about this stranger.

 

Interrupting the insane thoughts crashing off of one another in the mullet’s mind, A sax danced over a few notes. A tune chimed in with it. An instrumental introduction. 

Keith worried about his friends up above hearing, coming down to find out what the sound was and having the two exposed of doing… whatever they were doing.

Then the worry slipped into the strings of the melody, the waiter shaking his head. Ridiculous. He must have only came to play a song. 

But the accused of only wanting to play a song somehow was in front of Keith with a hand extended to be taken, a gentle smile that could give endless cavities; sweet. Honey, caramel, peach.

 

“I… don’t dance.” 

“It’s not  _ dancing _ ,” Lance reaches for the reluctant hand, pulling it along with the rest of the body out onto a clear spot on the floor that wasn’t occupied with cleaned tables. “It’s  _ singing _ with your body.” 

“It’s what?” It didn’t click, the confusion grew stronger. He noticed his hand willingly hugging the other’s. He pulled it away, his body was yanked along with it. Only a few steps or so. What in the world was this lunatic pumpkin spice despiser on about now? 

 

Then, after a dangerous glance into those deadly crystals of lazuli, it clicked.

 

“Did you—… oh my god you heard—“ Keith’s eyes marbled, a cringe of his shoulders rising. Now he was  _ really _ keeping his distance. He must have heard him sing that day. He had to have. 

A free chuckle left the mocha lips. A laugh, a titter, a giggle. He thought this was funny. He thought this was  _ funny _ ? Doesn’t he understand how embarrassing this would be? He has the audacity to—

“ _ Come Dance With Me _ .” There it was. The song. The song that Keith held dearly to his heart. The song that easily changed his bad days to good ones. The song that he turned to to release feelings he didn’t know he could let go of so smoothly. 

 

The song that probably got him into this mess.

 

The song that he will probably dance with Lance to.

 

The song that he will probably _enjoy_ dancing with Lance to.

 

“Let the rhythm swing you…” His hands had already welcomed the waiter’s, slowly blending their feet into a basic motion that suited the typical dance style of the jazz era. Then… “and leave the rest to me.”

Frank Sinatra’s voice can be heard starting the song just fine, a lovely melody, as always. It’s perfect. Keith doesn’t have time to respond to this before his feet pause, in response Lance’s freezing too. 

“You don’t even know me.” There was supposed to be a jab in the commentary, only a pity sting taken by the other. Being told something he already knew, a boring fact he was already aware of. 

“Well, In that case…” Lance’s body didn’t hesitate in catching up with the gaining pace of the beat. His hand flung Keith to the side, only to roll him back in towards him in a wind-up. Then, a little spin before him. He was spinning Keith.  _ Spinning _ him.

 

And, the most shocking part of it all.

The mullet was jumping right in to all of it.

 

Lance was still well acknowledged of the song, and Keith now was too. Another pull, this one into the mocha arms. The connection was there, the connection blazed. Syrup, syrup, syrup. “Pretty stupid to accept a dance with a stranger, huh?”

Peach, honeysuckle, tutti frutti. 

Two minutes and thirty seconds. All spent to a dime. Every second was another step. Every step was another sway.

 

“Are you from here?” 

Another kick. Another sweep. 

Cherry pie.

“Been here my whole life.”

Lean in. Giggle. 

“Worst drink here?”

Lean Out. Smile. Swing left.

Ganache, golden.

“Espresso, for sure.”

Twirl. Curl In. 

“Aliens?”

Loop around. Kick.

Cannoli.

“Definitely real.”

Lean out, turn in.

“Favorite color?”

A swing here. 

Vanilla. Sugar Rush.

“Red.”

Curl out. Wink.

“Favorite feature of mine you  _ love _ to stare at?”

Turn Out. 

“Oh, please.”

Lean in.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Truffle. Plum. Peaches. Sorbet. Whip, Trifle, lolly. 

Shimmy. Charleston. Another swing. Twirl. Giggle. Once more. One Last beat.

_ Dip _ .

Peaches and honeysuckle.

 

Frank’s voice faded at the very last note, the sax falling with it. The song was over, The air rolled back into a loud silence. All but breathing. Panting.

Then, “Keith.” A hushed whisper. Worn, husky. Leather, sandpaper. Raspy but willing. Ready.

“Well,  _ Keith _ ,” Testing the name on his tongue, Lance pulls the other up from the dip and back up properly onto his two feet. “Though you say you don’t dance, you should. More often.” 

 

Multiple bursts of purple, silver, gold. All blindingly bright. Then, popping. Popcorn, fireworks— they were fireworks. Then, people. Cheering, laughing.  _ Happy New Year! We made it through another one! Look at the pretty colors! Let’s make this one a good one! _

“Happy New Year.” A small upturn to lips, if it wasn’t already there. 

“Happy New Year, Keith.” A reciprocity from the mocha man. His cheeks rose gingerly, the indigo eyes not straying from the untamed raven locks upon Keith’s shoulders. It looked as silky as it probably felt. Better test that theory.

“Just because you know my name now doesn’t mean you get to—“ The waiter was taken aback, but not too startled as a hand wrapped fondly around the hair that framed his face upon his right cheek, a pleasant crimson lightly dusted upon both.

The hand raised into a motion of admiration, appreciating the mane and making way to the cheek that peeked out behind it. Then, a closing of the limited space between the two. A conclusion, a good ending. 

Though there was no noise, no music, no background sounds. Keith worried about his heart probing from his chest the more it increased in it’s heartbeat pace. Faster, faster, faster. Countless times of swallowing to reduce excitement.  _ Badump, badump, badump _ .

 

Maybe Lance could hear his heart beating. Maybe not. 

 

“Can I…?” Lance asked, beating Keith to the answer of a weak nod as his lips ghosted the others. Smoke, vanilla bean. Whipped cream. Straight black coffee, maybe? No sugar, no cream. Bitter. 

It was a single droplet of warm. Anything. Everything. A spark. A taste. Just one. Then, more.  _ More, more, more _ . A rollercoaster only going up, up, up. No drop, no sharp turns. Only an escalation that increases adrenaline. A sensational anticipation. 

A sensational everything.

 

A sudden break from the magnetic pull, “..s’ill n’t gettin’ me.. that easily.” A slurred claim from the waiter. It gave off the potential of a demand, but sounded more of a suggestive warning. “I don’t know you.”

A general defense. A shun away from whatever fairytale rabbit hole Keith had just fallen through. This man just got out of a relationship.

It didn’t seem to stop Lance from continuing, ignorant to the concept of the warning. 

 

“One step at a time.”

 

A dive right back into the rising action. Resume. Picking up like it never stopped, every second feeling like a lifetime.

Electric. Exhilarating. Red. Blue. Handfuls of little shocks. White. Purple. Pink. Explosions of universes, spontaneous fireworks. Galaxies in their hearts, hearts in their universes. Stars lighting up the solar system they’d eventually create, brush strokes to guide the direction. going up, up, up.

 

Peaches. Honeysuckle.

 

Then, a camera shutter broke the silence once more created by the two strangers, an interrupting flash that lit up the rest of the dimming that wasn’t covered by the outdoor fireworks. Terrifying.

It caused Keith to separate his own from Lance. A startled stray cat that had been exposed in it’s favorite hiding place. Fearsome, worried. Found out.

 

“Pidge— your flash was on.” A whisper from the top of the stairs could be heard, if you listened hard enough. 

“Well the quality would have been shit! It’s like a dungeon down here…”

The bickering alone between the two bystanders upon the stairs was enough to irk the waiter, his eyebrows furrowing. But, Lance couldn’t get enough of it. He was just snickering, holding back jumbles of giggles that Keith couldn’t help but grow to be fond of.

 

Any time other than now, though.

 

“What’s so funny? They took a picture of us.” A growl struck low and boiling from the mullet, defensively crossing his arms. This stance was once he’s most known for, too.

Yet another thing that Shiro was trying to get him to break the habit of whenever he was pissy or being dramatic. It’s still a work in progress.

“Oh— Hey Keith. And hey— wait— I don’t know your name. Wait wait— you’re that guy that Keith spilled the drink all over!” an exclamation coming from the one and only Hunk. He was more excited with the fact that he could remember as much just from faces. He was good with stuff like that, getting better.

“Hunk!” Exposed once more.

“Hunk?” Lance exchanged a registering glance between him and the cook. “And… Pidge.” Once again with the glasses. Putting names to faces.

“Yo.” A small salute from Pidge, shifting her glasses upward to refrain from sliding. “Anywho, why’s he here, Keith?”

“Wha- Pidge! It’s already bad enough that we totally ruined a moment, now you just—“ A frantic Hunk flailed his arms fanatically, a child embarrassed with a mother talking about them to their friend in the grocery store. 

“Well, it  _ is _ New Years night! Now I gotta buff the floor again because of their scuff marks!”

“You don’t even do the floors— I do!” 

 

The quarrel continued in the background, as expected from Keith. Or anyone else. A worn roll to his eyes was necessary, a simple shake to his head only complimenting the action. A soft apology with his eyes,  _ I am so sorry that they are like this _ .

A little chortle bubbled from the mocha man, his hand waving the mullet off.  _ Nothing to apologize for _ , was the general message in it.

A comfortable moment or so in their own silence, Keith looking Lance up from his post-winter-hat hairstyle down to his sole-dampened-boots from the snow. 

Sure, he knew nothing but this man’s name now. That, and he has these massive, dangerously blue eyes. He respects Keith’s idol artists like he does. He doesn’t believe in smoking. He’s stingy towards pumpkin spice for whatever reason he’ll need to ask him about later He knows how to dance. He can blow a straw wrapper relatively well, is a pretty pro at aim. And, he sure as hell still knew damn well he couldn’t have come down here just to dance to a song by now. 

But. He did want to know more. He wants to know how he first turned up here. He wants to know how long he’d been practicing the straw blowing technique. What  _ his _ favorite color is. What  _ his _ opinion of the worst drink here is. Does  _ he _ believe in aliens? Feeling the tugs of desire, strings on a guitar that craved a melody to be created upon them.

 

“I still barely know you,” Another not very fierceful warning from Keith, his voice lowered purposely in more of a whine for only Lance to hear. “And you don’t even know my last name.”

A quick glance to the jukebox, the gingerly grin having yet to fade. Lance held his hand out to take Keith’s, nonchalant. 

 

“I have a few more quarters left.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! 
> 
> It took a lot of courage for me to put this kind of work specifically out there for anyone to see. But, I had a few more pushes from those around me that supported me the rest of the way through.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this, and thank you for taking the time to read this!
> 
> I also belatedly wish you all a Merry Christmas, and hope you have a spectacular New Year!
> 
> ~Sincerely, a sleep deprived sack of potatoes.
> 
> ~Social Media~  
> Twitter: [@bappojesus]  
> Instagram: [@keithkocain]


End file.
